


Kisses and Kindling

by Jim_del_Carnival



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Meddling Kids, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 19:31:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15007808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jim_del_Carnival/pseuds/Jim_del_Carnival
Summary: Wendy and Webber discover that secrets find freedom in the darkness of the woods. ჯ One-shot.





	Kisses and Kindling

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this written for over a year but only now got around to polishing it enough for posting. It's some welcome lightheartedness in the middle of the bog of plot- and emotion-heavy fic I'm working on.

The sun dipped low behind the clouds like a cookie dunked into marshmallow foam. The fading light washed the sky in red and made long shadows ooze from the trees.

A fire crackled and popped in the stone pit.  Crouched beside it, Willow fed twigs to the blaze as though it were a stubborn baby refusing a spoonful of mushed plums.

"We don't have enough fuel to last the night," Willow announced.

Wilson watched as she eased another twig toward the mountain of a flame. "It doesn't tend to last long when you create all nine circles from Dante's Inferno.”

Willow continued poking twigs into the fire, ignoring Wilson.

Wilson sighed. "Okay. But it is getting late." If he prodded, Willow might relieve him of the chore. Or at least decide to be more sparing with the twigs.

"Take someone with you." Willow jabbed a stick into the flame and withdrew it to watch the tip smolder red. "It might be cold out, but at least you’ll know you’ll have a warm fire to come back to when you’re done."

Wilson grumbled something that Willow didn't bother listening to.  The crisp autumn air curled around them like the ghost of a cat's ninth life, carrying with it the wisp of a distant houd's howl. Wilson sat like a toadstool, considering his choices.

Webber and Wendy glanced up from drawing in the dirt with a head of flint. Webber's eyes brightened. The circlet of spider eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Mister Wilson—! Can we come?"

"Uhh . . . " Wilson looked at Webber as though he had forgotten until that moment that Webber existed. He stood with all the dignity he could muster and swiped some bits of grass from his trousers.

"Better stay here, kiddo," Wilson said at last. His tone had the same effect of giving a puppy a dismissive pat on the head. "Wouldn't want you to, uh, get hurt or, uh . . ."

Webber squinted. Wilson fumbled his words as though he were wrestling a slick bar of soap.  He lost the struggle to keep his focus on Webber and let his eyes wander until he stared somewhere above Webber's head.

Webber turned to follow his gaze. Behind them, Wes sat several yards away beneath a birchnut tree. The last bit of sunlight covered him like honey. Long dry blades of brown grass  were piled  beside him. He smoothed them over his lap like streamers to weave into a makeshift backpack.

Webber watched Wilson with all the intensity of someone watching an ant under a magnifying glass. Unaware of the attention, Wilson raised his arm in a hailing gesture and called for Wes.

"Come along," he said when Wes put aside the half-finished backpack. "We need fuel for the fire. Willow won’t stop feeding it and it’s pleading that it’s had enough."

Amused, Wes smiled over his shoulder at Willow. She stuck out her tongue and scrunched her face around it in an expression that could have made a fly drop out of the air dry as a chunk of plaster. She laughed when Wilson cowed and blanched like a boiled potato.

Webber watched them leave. Frowning, he rubbed his tongue over his fangs, back and forth.

"Wendy?  Do you think that—" When Webber turned, a sharp glint of light winked from beside the boulder Wilson had been sitting on. A gasp ground out of his throat like a ball of sandpaper.

"Oh, oopsie!" Webber pressed his hands to his cheeks, squashing until the spider legs that dangled around his neck bobbed. He whimpered, distraught.

"What did you do?"

Webber pointed like a traffic director, his arm straight as a fencepost. "The axe! Mister Wilson forgot his axe! How will he get wood for Miss Willow if he hasn't anything to chop with? Oh, Wendy!"

Unperturbed by Webber's theatrics, Wendy continued drawing crude crossbones in the dirt. "He can pick up twigs. Pull up some withered grass. Pinecones burn as well."

Webber seized Wilson's axe before Wendy finished.  He leaned the heavy metal head against his shoulder, standing with his chest pushed out like a four-foot-tall lumberjack . His fangs were bright against his bristles when he beamed.

"Come on, Wendy! We're all out of ideas for drawing. We want to help Mister Wilson."

"We were not invited." Wendy dug the flint into the soil to draw a slow straight line that didn't waver a millimeter. "As usual we  are unwanted . Two may very well be company, but three is a crowd."

Webber considered this. "But . . . there's gonna be four of us."

"Four is a raucous, bickering mob."

"Wen-dee!" Webber locked his arms at his sides. "We have to go. We should help. We'll go all alone in the cold if you don't come."

Wendy pondered her options.  Trekking with Webber through the shadow-swathed woods held little appeal, but beating back the hounds or spiders that followed Webber held even less appeal. Finally she relented.  She stood and scuffed her heel over Webber's drawings of puppies and flowers, kicking up little puffs of gray dust. With as much enthusiasm as someone walking out to  be hanged, she trailed after Webber into the woods.

Darkness shrouded them. Webber took a couple of stumbling steps backward.  When he heard the reassuring crunch of Wendy's footsteps behind him, he skipped forward as though he'd never faltered. He swung the axe and hummed, punctuating each chorus with a murmur to himself. "Chop! Chop! Bye-bye, tree. Bye-bye."

They meandered along to the tune of Webber's idle humming. Wendy knew he was more occupied with releasing pent-up energy than finding Wilson. A few moments later, a new noise filtered through the vines and drooping leaves.

Wendy paused. She whipped her arm like a roadblock in front of Webber. He bumped into her knobby elbow with enough force to jog the breath from his chest.

"Owwie, Wendy!" Whining, Webber shrank back and cupped his hand over his chest to ward off another jab.

"Silence," Wendy said. Her quiet monotone voice, soft as ever, made Webber sober up. "Listen. A voice."

"Wendy's right!"  Excited that his mission of returning the axe was at its close, Webber bounded ahead to where a cluster of berry bushes grew thick and twisted between clots of pine trees. He struggled to part the tangled branches enough to peer through.

The clearing ahead was a gray, grass-choked plain. A few jagged rocks stuck out from the earth like tombstones. The gnarled trees  were naked  and warped and motionless in the breeze.

A grin bared Webber's crooked fangs.

"Wendy, Wendy! We found them."

Wendy knelt beside Webber to plunge her hands into the bushes and pushed apart the foliage. She narrowed her eyes.

"All they collected is that pathetic heap of grass." Disgust thickened her voice and tapered it into a snort. "We could have gathered bundles of firewood on our own along the way. What are they wasting our last dying hour of daylight on?"

She and Webber watched. Wilson was talking. His mouth moved, but distance carried the words away in the wind before Wendy or Webber could hear. He was on his knees, tearing up clumps of grass with violent jerks, enough to rip clumps of soil out with the roots. His eyebrows knotted and bunched wrinkles like trenches in his forehead.

Wes had no time to help gather grass. He was too busy gesticulating in response to Wilson, his hands a white blur of motion.

"Mister Wilson looks mad," Webber said. He fidgeted, twisting his claws together. "We bet it's because he realized he didn't bring his axe. He might think it was Mister Wes's fault. Let's go give it to him, Wendy."

"Wait," Wendy said. The sense of conflict caught her attention like a drop of blood in a shark pool. Unable to resist being part of a secret audience, she settled herself to watch.

Webber whined. "We hope they don't fight. We don't like it when someone is angry, Wendy."

"Shh. Look."

Wilson cast away the handful of grass he clutched. The dry stalks whisked away in the breeze like confetti. Abandoning his work, he wrenched to the side fast enough to crack his back. He grabbed Wes's arms midair with a dexterity before unseen, cutting short a gesture.

"What are they doing, Wendy?" Concerned yet curious, Webber shoved his face deeper into the bush to get as close to the sight as possible.

Wendy was well aware of the signs of a scuffle erupting. She began calculating the odds of who was most likely to emerge victor. Wilson was clumsy but lithe. Wes was as heavy-boned as a St. Bernard, but far more hesitant to raise a fist. Wendy pictured herself as a referee. Black stripes were on the mere threshold of tasteful as far as she  was concerned.

But Wilson did the opposite of aiming a jab. As Wendy and Webber watched, he slid his hands down Wes's arms. Lightly he trailed his fingers over his wrists and beneath his palms and caught his gloved hands. Wilson's shoulders bent as though he were carrying a backpack full of iron.  Still talking, he squeezed Wes's hands and brought them to his face to press his forehead against his knuckles.

"What is he saying, Wendy? Can you tell? Wendy!"

Wes offered no clues to what Wilson babbled. He knelt, confused, as motionless as a mountain peak.

Wendy struggled to read the rambling words Wilson's lips formed. A stifling minute dragged on.

Wilson raised his head to lock his gaze with Wes's. He said something. Wes nodded over and over. Wilson's eyes squinted, red-rimmed and shiny. He clutched Wes's hands tighter, drawing them to his chest. Completely immersed in his spiel, Wilson leaned closer.

He paused. Even the wind calmed a bit.  It pushed a few dead leaves along in a little train over the ground, ushering them away like enraptured schoolchildren. When Wilson spoke again, Wes shook his head and looked at the ground.

In one swift move, Wilson threw his arms around Wes. He locked his elbows and crushed him into a hug that not even the darkness could have tugged him out of. Wilson pressed his face into Wes's chest, rubbing his nose into his threadbare shirt like a hungry cat. Wes remained frozen for a long time. Whether he took a breath at all was dubious. When he warmed to life again, he slid his arms around Wilson with a hesitance that made him slow and gentle, every movement cautioned with tenderness.

Wendy and Webber recovered from their surprise several moments after Wes did. Webber blinked. His spider eyes glittered like gold coins in the dark.

"Are they . . . okay?"

"I wouldn't say that. More like they're—Webber?"

Webber's eyes went wide as tea platters. Wendy squinted at him. She gave a brisk wave back in forth in front of his face that elicited no more response than one would from a cardboard box. Exasperated, she conceded and turned back to Wilson and Wes.

Her spit went dry in her throat and left her mouth gritty as the Kalahari Desert.

Wilson had pushed his palm against Wes's cheek. He no longer spoke. He rubbed his thumb along Wes's jawline, tracing the curve. When Wes relaxed, slouching, Wilson pressed his cheek to tilt his head. With his other arm draped around Wes's shoulder for support, Wilson craned his neck. His nose bumped against Wes's.

With half-closed eyes, he murmured something. Wes made the slightest motion of a nod. Wilson stretched. He paused. Then, light as a butterfly lighting on a daisy, he melded his mouth to Wes's.

Webber almost tumbled headfirst into the bushes. Wendy stayed still, cemented in place. The distilled color in her cheeks drained.

"Wendy!" Webber's hoarse stage whisper erupted into a squeal of delight. The smile made his eyes squint like a cluster of crescent moons. "Wendy, they're doing a kiss like Valentines!"

Wendy stared, hollow and blank as ever, as Wilson smeared Wes's makeup and smoothed his thumb over his cheek.

"Valentines," Wendy repeated in disgust. "How frivolous. What a wretched cruelty love must be. Ripping away all logic and reason to leave men in an empty field with no thought of cold nor coming darkness."

As if he hadn't heard Wendy, Webber reached out to give her sleeve a little tug.

"Look," he said. His garbled voice softened. "Mister Wilson doesn't look mad anymore. He doesn't even look cranky."

Wendy hesitated to look the way most people would suffer themselves to look at roadkill splattered over cobblestone . Wilson did have little trace of his normal tight-lipped scowl.

At last, Wilson stiffened his shoulders. He fanned his fingers over Wes's jaw to keep him from leaning forward when Wilson eased back. The kiss broke not without leaving a lasting reminder on Wilson. A heart-shaped smudge of black lipstick covered his mouth. If he noticed, he didn't care. Wes's eyes were sleepy and gazed, and his hair tufted in all directions from Wilson's grip.

They talked a minute longer, subdued. All the frustration and anger of earlier had long since fled. Their arms were loose around each other.  Wilson nodded in the general direction of the horizon, where only the edge of the sun thin as a dime glared over the mountain peaks.  Having forgotten about their chore, they roused to their feet and rubbed bits of grass from their clothes.

"It's almost dark," Wendy said,  just  to break the spell of lingering surprise and enchantment. She watched in disdain as Wilson took Wes's hand to guide him back to the campsite. Their fingers laced together as though meant to fit together  seamlessly.

"He had not a thought of his axe. We wasted the effort."

"Did you see that, Wendy?" Webber said, still in awe. "Mister Wilson's wrinkles were gone."

"Not  all of  them."

"He looked so different." Unable to move beyond what they had seen, Webber let Wendy steer him forward. "He wasn't smiling. But he looked happy. He didn't look old anymore. Did Mister Wes make him feel better?"

Wendy snorted. "It’s doubtful that the feeling was better.  Perhaps  a brief distraction from miseries, but nothing lasting."

Webber dragged after Wendy. Leaves crackled under their feet. Fireflies illuminated patches of the forest.

"Wendy?" Webber said after thinking.

 Silence.

"Wendy, do you think when we have wrinkles, you'll make them disappear?"

"Your fur will hide them. Nobody will see them anyway."

"That will be nice." Webber looked down at his feet, watching the ground scroll by.

"Mister Wilson didn't have his axe. But he wasn't scared of a monster rushing out of the woods, even though it's almost dark. He always worries about that. About doggies and bugs and pigs. Do you think he felt safe, Wendy?"

"Only a fool lowers guard in the wilderness. In this world there is no safety."

"We think  he felt safe.  We feel  safe with Wendy."

Wendy tightened her grip on Webber's wrist and quickened her pace. Webber tripped along, still musing.

"Wendy?"

Silence.

"Are Mister Wilson and Mister Wes married?"

Wendy considered this. "I don't know.  Perhaps. I am only grateful they have tact to keep it to themselves. Affection is such a petty, trifle thing to  be concerned  with in the scheme of things. Death comes sooner than you expect.  When all that love  is snuffed  out with nothing to show for it, you must bear knowing that all the years spent cultivating it were a waste."

Webber remained quiet for a long time.

"We don't think  love is a waste if it feels safe and happy. We like feeling safe and happy. Don't you . . . ?"

Wendy steeled her shoulders. "I’ve forgotten those feelings. Love in any form will do nothing to bring feeling into what cannot  be warmed."

The somber mood descended with the darkness. The campfire was coming into view.

"Hey, Wendy?"

Silence.

"Do you feel safe with us?"

Her answer came brisk and toneless. "Yes."

Webber said nothing when her grip on his wrist tightened. He found it reassuring.

The silence comforted them both. As they neared the campfire, Webber whispered, "Can we ask Mister Wilson if he's married to Mister Wes?"

"I wouldn't," Wendy advised. "He might get more wrinkles."

"We want to see him talk to Mister Wes. We want to see if they act like Mum and Father. Mum and Father  were married, too. We saw them kiss, and Father  barely  had wrinkles. Grandpa did though, but Grandpa was old."  All at once Webber planted his heels in the dirt and halted so  abruptly  that Wendy stumbled and almost pulled his arm from its socket.

"Wendy . . . ?"

Wendy waited for the explanation. Webber swallowed and said, "We didn't get any firewood."

Relieved, Wendy shook her head. "Come along. It was Mister Wilson's chore, not ours.  We might  get to see Miss Willow yell at him."

Satisfied with this answer, Webber tucked his hand into Wendy's. He glanced at her, tall and ghostlike in the darkness. Pale. Wispy. Grave. He was safe with her. He knew how Mister Wilson felt.

He held tight to her hand, and they went on.


End file.
